Clocks Don't Make a Difference
by forthegenuine
Summary: "You're not posting these to social media, are you?" she asked, although she knew the answer to the question as soon as it formed in her mouth. Sherlock had never been a fan of the media, social or otherwise.


So this little story is dedicated to the wonderful peeps I met at Sherlocked USA 2017. An anecdote came about in Una, Wanda, and Timothy's panel that Benedict's parents would kiss to get him to stop watching TV when he was little. Nearly half a year later, this happened... Hope you enjoy! (originally posted on AO3 4 November 2017)

* * *

(So,when kiss Spring comes  
we'll kiss each kiss other on kiss the kiss  
lips because tic clocks toc don't make  
a toctic difference  
to kisskiss you and to  
kiss me)  
––e.e. cummings

Molly was enjoying a self-bestowed and well-deserved (if she did say so herself... and she did) glass of her fourth favorite wine. It was only Wednesday evening, after all, and consuming anything in her top three would be considered frivolous and over-indulgent.

She toasted herself for having survived the first half of the week, but truthfully, she was also celebrating a recent parenting breakthrough of sorts.

Her son, who was just north of twelve years old, had recently developed the worst of hers and Sherlock's bad habits. He gave sharp replies to questions directed toward him whenever he was in a foul mood (which was always), and he isolated himself in his room, surrounded only by his mobile devices, _plural_. A perpetual cloud of moodiness (and preteen hormones) seemed to hang over him. His latest transgression is openly refusing to do his chores.

This week, however, the boy seemed to relent on the subject of doing his chores. For the past two days, he actually behaved civilly, and completed his chores without being told. Never mind that it might be premature, the thought _had_ crossed Molly's mind as she took another triumphant sip, but she fancied she might perhaps start her own parenting blog for busy professionals, and become an internet sensation.

She was in the middle of this domestic-slash-entrepreneurial reverie when Sherlock entered the dining room. He wandered over to her and without uttering a word, placed a side of his index finger under Molly's chin, and tilting her head up, drew her in for a languid kiss. Her heart raced (not just from the alcohol) as she felt his soft lips on hers, his tongue sliding into her mouth to meet hers delicately. Her arms wound their way around his shoulders to pull him in. When their kiss ended, she did not relinquish her hold on him just yet, but relished in simply having him close.

"Hello," he said.

"Hi," she responded dreamily, with a grin on her face.

But something caught her eye from the corner of her vision. She saw her own reflection-a digital version of herself, face flushed and lips thoroughly kissed-looking back at her. Sherlock's thumb hovered just above the button of the camera function of his mobile, and she could see a thumbnail of the kiss they just shared.

"Sherlock!" she exclaimed, and she pushed him away slightly. "What are you doing?"

Instead of replying, he straightened his back, and began tapping at the screen, the sides of his mouth slightly upturned. Clearly, he was up to something, and this worried her a little.

"You're not posting these to social media, are you?" she asked, although she knew the answer to the question as soon as it formed in her mouth. Sherlock had never been a fan of the media, social or otherwise.

"Of course not," he scoffed, looking genuinely affronted. "I've been sending them to our son."

"What?!" Well. She didn't expect _that_. She paused, "Wait, 'them'?" Suddenly, the memories of similar kisses shared in the two previous consecutive nights came flooding back to her. "What on _earth_ for?" cried Molly.

He set his mobile down, and in a dramatic gesture, lifted his wrist as if to read the time, though it bore no watch. "Four, three, two––"

A lanky boy with a head of auburn curls walked through the dining room. He paused just long enough to acknowledge his parents, "Hi, Mum. _Dad."_ Before he dragged himself to the kitchen to fulfill his filial duties, he let out a sigh belonging to long-suffering children who have the misfortune of being born to embarrassing and shameless parents.

"Isn't this a little traumatising for our child?" Molly asked, when out of earshot, in a tone that achieved the perfect balance between amusement and the beginnings of doubt in her husband's parenting skills.

He shrugged. "My parents did it to me all the time to get me to come to dinner when I was a boy. And I turned out fine," he added without a drop of irony, though, neither without the comfort that he meant to convey. Oblivious, he leaned over and pressed another kiss, this time a gentler one, on Molly's cheek. His mobile buzzed. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Greg's got a possible decapitation for me."

"Possible decapitation?" she repeated with curiosity, her eyes tracking her husband as he moved about the flat gathering his accoutrement.

Sherlock found his scarf under a football kit bag, and wound it around his neck. "Still technically waiting for the rest of the head to give way," he explained with barely contained glee that would normally be socially frowned upon, but still managed to be secretly endearing to Molly after all these years. He announced, "Shouldn't be longer than an hour. I can pick up some of that dreadful chicken you two seem to like..." He then lowered his voice, as he brought his mouth close to her ear. "And then maybe after, you and I can pick up where we left off?" he suggested hopefully.

She matched his gaze and murmured, "Only if bring extra halloumi cheese."

He winked. "Deal."

As the front door of the flat locked shut, Molly heard a small commotion where her son was taking the bins out to the kerb. Apparently her internet fame would wait.

She took a consoling, but still generous sip from her glass, picked up her mobile from where it lay on the table, and found her mother-in-law's number on speed dial. They had a lot to chat about.


End file.
